


(Don't) Send Flowers

by MarsPrime



Series: Forged in Three Parts [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 14:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9904364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarsPrime/pseuds/MarsPrime
Summary: What do you do when your endless war comes to an abrupt halt because a god decided enough was enough and introduced a more permanent end? Well, you go complain to the other gods of course! Never mind that in introducing Death upon the world, said god would have been the first death, and that the others are in mourning. Well just send are expendable, experimental, super soldiers! They're definitely well adjusted and were in no way coerced into participation. (Because that'll end well.)





	

Objective

_noun_

  1. something that one's efforts or actions are intended to attain or accomplish;
  2. not influenced by personal feelings, interpretations, or prejudice;



# Counter|Vail|

The whispers followed them down the hallway. The path to Command had been a somber mess ever since the sky had gone dark. Not that it was really dark, where Lacradam once glowered from their cage, only an afterimage of the explosion lingered, reminder and warning. But the sky was dark, in so far that no further messages from Xan’dath were received. Both Sky and Earth had turned silent in their mourning of their beloved and it was irritating.

Vail couldn’t help his sigh as he marched to meet with High Command. There wasn’t any point to this war anymore. They just didn’t know how to stop, and Xan’dath wasn’t sharing. He couldn’t help the bitter feeling at knowing that while the gods were silent, more and more beings were lost to Lacradam’s parting gift.

A quick probe backwards tells him his companion is still there. Petro is as silent and unreadable as ever. Vail considers his companion briefly before sending _query_ across his  corona to where he can just sense the other gestalt. The answering _received/continue_ has him asking, “So what do you think, High Command wants with us?”

Petro pauses slightly, head cocked in thought, “Probably, have some grand idea of how to end the war. Or maybe something to do with those lost-to-endless-sleep.”

Vail snorts at the first statement, “Please tell me that was a joke. You know no one's got a clue what’s going on since Lacradam went boom.”

“Of course, it was a joke. I’m not stupid.” She shrugs, unimpressed, “More likely some pointless mission, like recon.”

“Recon’s not pointless.”

“Yes, it is. Gods are upset, everything's liable to change.”

“You… may have a point.”

The smug reply goes unvoiced.

They continue to drift down the hall in silence. Upon arriving at their destination, they were greeted by a nervous assistant. Their corona pulsing rapidly as they stuttered out an introduction. Once ushered inside, the small team was greeted with the immobile veils of High Command.

“I assume you’ve received your report,” one of the three growled out.

“Yes sir,” Vail says, knowing he will have to answer for both of them. Petro’s continued refusal to speak to any ranking officer is always the most troublesome on Hemps like this one.

“Good, now we need an end to this war and we need one soon,” purrs another. “The first step being, of course, to reestablish contact with our Lord.”

“We’ve managed to secure a caravan for you. You are to head towards the heart of the Impact Zone and set up the communication array. You must succeed, we need to know just what this latest… gift from the gods means.” The last member of High Command is nothing but professional.

“But sir, I have no technical skills. How exactly am I supposed to set up communications?” Vail cannot help but wonder how well thought out this plan is. It would not be surprising for them to send out their soldiers on half-baked ideas, the losses back then for failure would just have been recouped in the next battle, now however the consequences seemed more permanent.

“Oh, didn’t you know? For all its defects Peroration is an excellent engineer, I’m sure it can finish this task easily.” Purr replies airily.

That… hurts, hurts more than it should and Vail can’t help the ripple of bitter anger that sweeps through him. For _Peroration_ is the best of the Gestalt and even it is flawed and barely stable. What does that say of him? He whose only redeeming quality is that his loyalty cannot be called into question, after all, he _volunteered_. And of course, all these thoughts are telegraphed to everyone in the room.

 _Petro_ is a solid wall of comfort behind him. Even though she doesn't understand what it is he is upset about, can’t because of how far down they had to strip core personality to get their efficient war machines. Vail often wonders who she was, who _they_ were before they were Commands pet weapon. Cannot help but wonder if this is somehow his fault. The sudden guilt at his own pettiness is somewhat expected and at least that is suppressed from being broadcast by his field.

High Command is _polite_ enough to not comment on his prolonged silence.

“Yes sir,” Vail manages to squeeze out.

“Work fast, agents have reported that the Ziram are also attempting to get into contact with Yandrell.” Growl says, “Dismissed.”

The dismissal rings through the room, leaving the tension. Vail can feel Petro’s flight or fight reasoning activating behind him. If it weren’t for protocol she would already be either halfway to their room. Or there’d be a massacre. As it stands she waits tensely until Vail passes her before moving. _Real stickler for the rules that one,_ the thought filters through Vail’s core, _least as far as the casual observer is concerned._

“The assignment is marked down as indefinite,” Petro says. “We don’t have to complete the objective immediately.”

“And while we dally others disappear,” Vail replies. “You need to care, or at least pretend to.”

A soft hum, “You didn’t say anything about the return trip.”

“…No I didn’t.”

“One Hepm, half way.”

It’s a much fairer bargain than Petro usually offers and that sets of a silent alarm in Vail’s core.

He agrees anyway.

# |Pe(t)ro|ration

Vail is brooding. Petro assumes it is something she has done. It usually is. That’s why she plans on deviating from the mission slightly to try and get him to relax. There is after all an unofficial cease fire and she plans on taking full advantage of the fact. Petro is not entirely sure where to go from here. She is rarely responsible for coming up with plans and knows even less about what one does on leave. But she knows where to find out.

In the meantime, they have a mission to pack for. An _indefinite_ mission. High Command doesn't think the two of them will come back. It is telling that they would risk their top weapons on a Lita run. Either they are insinuating that they are somehow less competent than they were before and cannot handle a mission where resistance is unknown. Or more likely they are desperate. It’s okay. Petro is used to doing the impossible.

A third option comes unbidden, that High Command is looking to get rid of them. There is no outward reaction to this thought, which is good in case this is true. This outcome is unlikely, they are useful and they have showed no signs of deviating from the Tyrn. And even if they had Command would just take them in for reconditioning. Right? Purging these thoughts from her mind Petro drifts after her companion, arriving at their quarters.

Their room is “standard.” In other words, it’s a retrofitted supply closet. She should be bitter; the gestalt sacrifices a lot for their kin and always get the leftovers. However, Vail is bitter enough for the both of them and Petro can’t find it in herself to care. (Which in turn seems to make Vail broodier.)

Glancing around the room she begins to pack for mission. The necessities, maintenance equipment, spare supplements, backup weapons. Vail packs dye, the basis of a disguise kit, and what few maps have been “lucky” enough to wind up in their possession. Petro senses them hesitating before drifting towards what few personal things the two of them have.

“Just in case,” Vail says.

“We’ll be back,” Petro snags up the dye, the patterns they wear are well known by the enemy. It be a good idea to change them considering how long they’ll be in the corona. “I do you, you do me?”

A swift nod is all Petro gets in response.

She sits down, still as a statue, while Vail carefully erases the dye work already established into the outward facing metal of her frames. Petro is mostly wood and therefore has less dye that needs to be cleared. Vail, being the opposite, takes longer. The solvent has already worked out the color of her pattern by the time she’s done helping Vail. When they move to begin a new pattern, there is a flash of guilt. The pattern itself is familiar, she can remember when Maeve first painted it on her. The pain that blossoms deep in her core demands Petro seeks a distraction.

“There will be Ziram patrols in the Impact Zone, new patterns will insure we won’t get attacked on sight, how exactly are we going to counteract are very distinctive frames?”

Vail stills where they are inking in a swirl on one of Petro’s limbs, “I figured you could get some tips from your… friends. I suppose we’ll have to adjust ourselves to appear as if we were created naturally. Not be as regulation cut as we usually are.”

They continue to work in silence, occasionally discussing possible plans for when they get out into the corona. New designs spill across the metal parts of their frames, the patterns are not pretty, made to look as if they were damaged when the organic roots and branches tore through the metal or where metal warped around bark. They’ve seen enough newborn Gestalt out on the corona to know what to replicate. The new colors contrast sharply with the flowers that bloom along their frames.

The effect is not quite what they desire, the seams between wood and metal, far too sophisticated to emulate a battlefield born.

“We’re going to need to let the Ziram parts of us grow out a bit. We don’t look nearly as savage as we should.” Petro says.

“Will you be okay with that?” Vail glances at their partner, she is known for being extremely well kept.

“I can manage,” Petro, veil shifting to display her annoyance, before turning to drift out. There are other matters to attend to before they leave and she trusts Vail to take care of the packing.

Petro drifts around the facility and makes her way underground. Set aside in a room few can access is a tree. It is not soulless. Composed of the remnants torn from both prisoners and battlefield Gestalts, it is an effigy of ruin. Clustered in the tree’s branches are the cores Peroration has ripped from the Ziram, staying close to the hollow promise of existence.

The moment Petro enters the softly flickering cores float towards her, drawn by an invisible call. The echo of their song humming to life in the presence of their captor.

“I need information on the area surrounding the Impact Zone. What are the chances of encountering Ziram in that area?” Petro’s corona is controlled, there is no need to intimidate. No need to pressure answers out of the already defeated.

Slowly softly the cores spin a song of the cursed land. Where cold metal and fire first touched down. Blow after blow on Yandrell’s flesh until massive craters where formed and eternal wounds bled. How thieves rose from meteors and spilled out into _their_ promised land. Trying to claim land not theirs. Only the brave or foolish dare enter the craters borders. However, that does not mean it is not guarded. The Reyanden demands a guard so that no more _thieves_ can fall from the Abyss and join the fight.

Humming her thanks, she turns to leave. But not before lighting a candle. Even those lost to themselves deserve to see the light.

A mission, especially an “indefinite” one, will mean leaving the lost in the _care_ of those in charge. Therefore, Petro will offer what small comfort she can and not think about how this might reflect guilt. Done with the… _messier_ part of her job, Petro meanders towards the hangar bay where Vail should be securing transport. It is busy. The caravans are noisy, metal clinking together as they jostle each other, pilots snap out orders trying to corral the chaos but adding to it in the end. It feels like a battle but without the need to destroy, at least the ones from before the sky went dark. _Peroration_ loves it. _It_ does not love the current status of the war. Of the cores slowly going dark and frames still. _Lost._

Where do they go?

# |Lach|rymose

“Where do you think, they go?” Creed asks, the flat _query_ itching against Lach’s field. “You know the sparks?”

“Who cares? If we can’t get them back, then their gone. Nothing we can do about it. “Lach shifts, uncomfortable with the flow of Creed’s thoughts. “Where’s this coming from anyway?”

“Oh, well, the battlefields have gotten really quiet and I noticed the number of soldiers coming back has diminished. So, the sparks that have gone silent during the skirmishes must be gone and won’t that affect the effectiveness and productivity of the Reyanden?” Creed blurts out, vines flailing in (false)distress.

Lach relaxes minutely, none of what it had said would require reporting. Once again, they can’t help but wonder how the scholars managed to condition another being so effectively that it exists for the cause. Yet it somehow still manages to retain enough of the original personalities so as to create a talkative, helpful, naïve, annoying, little thing.

Sometimes it is hard to remember that this bright frame is barely more than a doll, a weapon for the Reyanden. And it hurts to feel that flat emotionless field slowly unfurl into something _more,_ something _alive_ only for Creed to disappear for a day and come back a doll. Hurts even more to know that it is their fault, their reports that alert the handlers to when reconditioning is necessary.

The echo of love from one **core** spark fragment to **his** its mate in another Reaper makes some cycles unbearable. Lach cannot help but hate their handlers for manipulating theirs and Creed’s components. Does it know? Does it know why it clings to them like a lifeline? They know it does not, and cannot help but envy its ignorance.

Lach tears their thoughts’ away from the downward spiral. They try to refocuses on the mission. Lach and Creed are heading towards the Fall. Where Xan’dath’s Shannets had first _dared_ to touch Yandrell. **_Those are our people too-_ ** The craters ran deep, tears rippling out of the centers. Creating a network of treacherous canyons no one has truly explored. Claiming that territory from the Shannets had been a great victory. **_Traitor._ ** But that was before, when you could throw away a frame and the spark would persist until the frame had repaired itself.

Now Lacradam’s curse limits the total number of sparks, of soldiers. Now such risks could not be tolerated. Now the Fall lays unclaimed and unmapped, a trap.

The Reyanden had decreed a team had to be sent out to the Fall. To take advantage of the tears in Yandrell’s flesh to get closer to the spark of the Lord. The Reyanden hoped to initiate renewed contact with Yandrell, to ask for… something. It’s not Lach’s place to know. **_Why follow those you know do harm to kin? Why not rise and fight and protect? What poor Shield you make._ **

**_Do not enter the Fall. Despair lingers there. False Hope. Remember? Warmth and closeness._ ** **_Maeve_ ** **_, who do we not still love? And then_ ** **_too hot,_ ** **_burning, burning, melting. Fall, falling, fell. Cradled in the stone. Why did you not welcome us? Why did you point your blade at us? We meant no harm. We wanted to see the sun – Lacradam, Father, Creator._ **

Lach does not care to mention their own problem. Their core fragments are not as tame as the Reyanden would like. **_Traitor, you must tell them._ ** The boundaries of who they are blur and in the quiet times they feel themselves unravel.

No one notices. Creed shines too bright to notice the ever-present storm that moves in its wake. For this Lach is grateful. **_You would place_** ** _Maeve_** **_in Harm’s way?_** They should not feel guilty, it is Creed’s fault to begin with. **_Maeve_** **_can do no wrong._**   _No_. If _he_ didn’t love whatever fragment of Creed was a Shannet – from, from _before –_  then this wouldn’t be Lach’s problem. **_Should have run farther._**

There is a palm near their neck, “Lach, breath.” Creed’s dark face plate hovers near theirs. Gold petals reflect the darkened sun. “You were spacing out.”

“Sorry. No need to worry.” Lach shakes their head, as if to banish the remnants.

“Where did you go?”

“I don’t know, someplace hot.”

A rustle **_that could have been a hum_ **. “I think I know where you went.”

“Do you?”

“Yep, I go there sometimes too.” **_What might have been a smile_ **.

“…Tell me about it?”

Creed’s petals flare in **_what should have been_ ** surprise. “You don’t normally ask about, well, anything.”

“I, I need a distraction.”

 _Understanding_ ripples through Creed’s field, “It’s dark. But not absolute. There are dots, like sand grains scattered in the distance. And a fleet of soft metal moving towards a large orange object. There’s a brighter object in the distance, Lacradam maybe. But the fleet just keeps moving forward. Then there’s this tug like someone drawing me into a hug but then I’m falling and I can’t escape. It’s so hot and I always think I’m going to crash but then there’s someone there. There’s always someone there and they pull me in and shield me.” Creed’s presence dims a little towards the end, voice losing some of its usual enthusiasm.

Lach should report this. This is different, new. Reapers don’t dream. **_Let it keep some of what it once was._ ** Mercy. If the Reyanden finds out… If the Reyanden finds out, it won’t matter neither of them will remember these dreams and Lach’s problem will be solved. If it is a problem.

“Thank you.”

**_Should have run farther._ **

# |Cre(e)d|endum

Creed liked to talk. When you talk, you’re doing something and when you’re doing something you don’t have to think. Creed hates thinking.

But it’s really hard to hold a conversation when your partner isn’t paying attention. The silence had stretched on after the end of the discussion about its dream. Lach’s strange behavior was not new. When they thought no one was looking Lach often gazed into the distance, twitching, as if in imagined conversation. They rarely speak about what it is they see. With nothing more to talk about, Creed looks around trying to figure out where they are. It knows where they are going and part of the why, but it has never been this far Wynd.

Wynd the land of the generous and bountiful, ironic that that’s where the Reyanden’s enemies would fall from the void to permanently scar Yandrell’s surface. Most of the fighting had occurred there, including the “final” battle, and it was now littered with silent frames. For when Lacradam had disappeared, Their last cry echoed over the area, cursing. Everyone had cleared out and abandoned the land after that.

All three of the celestial beings had raged there, now no one knew what to expect from the sacred land. No one wanted to find out.

Creed clung to these facts unsure of what to do when alone with its thoughts. Lach wasn’t in the mood for more talk, too busy making sure the caravan was moving correctly. And brooding, but that was beside the point. Creed glanced around again, they’d been traveling for about a cycle. The landscape was filled with soft reds, oranges, and yellows. They melded together in abstract patterns. The otherwise barren landscape greeting the travelers with dust.

It wondered at the reason behind creating such a hard, solid landscape, Yandrell’s people where fragile, would it not have benefited them all if the planet where more welcoming? Maybe if it was, the Shannets would have seen what a wonderful place and what a wonderful creator Yandrell is. Maybe then they would have been willing to serve and this whole mess could have been avoided.

Creed does not share these thoughts with Lach, it does not know why.

“We should reach the border of the Fall by tomorrow.” Lach breaks the silence that had descended onto the little party.

A jerky nod is all the response they get.

Lach pulses reassurance at it, what little filters through the barriers enforced by, by meetings with the scholars, manages to sooth Creed’s sparks. The reassurance while nice is empty as neither of them know why Creed is uncomfortable in the first place. Unsure of what else to do Creed begins to talk.

“This is going to be so fun. I’ve never been in the Wynd before. We should get some reminders.” Creed says, usual enthusiasm falling a little flat.

“I guess, I mean we don’t really need anything. And we are running out of space,” Lach replies. The two of them had collected mementos from other places they had… visited. Their small, shared room was quickly overrun with years of “souvenirs” gathered over the course of the war.

“We can make room for more.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“You doubt everything.”

“I know, one of us has to. And you’re always of chasing lights.”

The two of them easily fall into old banter routines. Amusement replacing the tension that had been building since Lach had first spaced out. Lach was so much fun to play with when they bothered to put the effort in.

Creed’s petals flare out, radiating happiness. “Hey let’s play a game.”

Unfazed by the abrupt change in topic and long used to their partner’s quirks, Lach ask, “How about I spy? You first.”

“I sense with my field something… grey?” Grey and brown are death. There shouldn’t be any grey until they actually reached the Fall. Or unless there was an accident. But they are the only ones here.

“What?”

Creed hesitantly point towards the sky. The two of them looked up. Instead of the dark mess of indigo and lilac, a grey mass shrouded the void.

#    


**Author's Note:**

> Hepm - Day  
> Ziram - "enemy" what Xan'dath's people use to refer to Yandrell's  
> Gestalt/Reaper - what the respective armies use to describe the unholy amalgamation that are the main cast. A battlefield born is one that occurs naturally while the main caste are artificial.  
> Shannets - "thieves" what Yandrell's people use to refer to Xan'dath's  
> Reyanden - no direct translation, basically the people in charge of Yandrell's people. Absolute authority.


End file.
